


paranormal activity

by dykeula



Series: the art of ghosting [1]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: 1850s, 19th Century, Aziraphale is a loser, Character Turned Into a Ghost, Comedy, Crowley is Just Straight Up Not Having A Good Time Bro, Haunted Houses, Horror Comedy, Imma turn that into a tag and you can't stop me, M/M, Old Ghost Yelling At Cloud To Get Off his Property, Poltergeist to Friends to Lovers, Poltergeists, Pre-Slash, Slow Burn, Slow Burn Lite, but everything is the same, ghost au, ghost lore, good omens but crowley is a ghost that haunts az bookshop, slightly less than 6000 years of slow burn, so is Crowley, soul touching as a metaphor for sexy times
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-07
Updated: 2019-12-28
Packaged: 2021-02-26 02:06:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,733
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21705682
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dykeula/pseuds/dykeula
Summary: "Humans were to ghosts what ghosts were to humans: a delightful jest to pass the time if the radio didn’t offer any relief. Sort of like chatting to fellas from oversees. They talked funny, wore fancy hats and were to be enjoyed with caution, and in doses. Problem was when they wouldn't leave Crowley alone."--Back in the midst of the 19th century, a certain gentleman by the name of Mr. Fell aquires the rights to a particular empty store in London that's been closed for a while - for good reason. But what challenge's a little haunting to an ethereal being, right? It's tickety boo.Crowley, on the other hand, very much objects to his newest roomie. So far his track record for scaring off potential buyers is holding at a steady 100%. But what challenge's a bookish nerd to a omnipresent malevolent spirit, right? It's tickety boo.
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: the art of ghosting [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1564474
Comments: 9
Kudos: 117





	1. uninvited guests

**Author's Note:**

> Haunted house? *Aziraphale voice* It's Free Real Estate!  
> This story is just "Good omens AU where everything is the exact same except crowley is a ghost". So in this story, Aziraphale doesn't really fraternize with the enemy, he's just a lonely bloke.  
> Don't kill me about any historical inconsistencies, I'm neither british nor from the 1850's nor would I care about the correct slang terms if I was :( But if any of y'all are actual ghosts from the 19th century and you think I've misinterpreted you somehow, hmu. I do know quite a lot about western ghost lore (poltergeist) and some of the ghost lore is just. absolutely high larious (ghosts love red wine, but only the best wine, and they CAN get drunk off it) so i will incorporate it into this fanfic.  
> Yes, this is the fanfiction i've been meaning to write since my "the exorcism & accidental haunting of crowley" fanfic. The haunted has become the hauntee - how the tables have turned.  
> This will be a series, btw. Trying to go for the home run here and span the entire book. Expect a lot of ghost puns.

If there was one thing Crowley didn’t like it was intruders. There were a lot of things he didn’t like: British weather, his existence, customer service, fancy hats, the newest fashion humans had invented since the glorious rococo times. Horse carriage rides. Men, just in general. Books, god he _hated_ books with a fiery passion that was quite frankly alarming since he currently lived in a bookshop. Or well, used to _not_ lived. Used to used to haunt, actually. But those bookkeepers never stayed around long enough for him to really get a feel of ‘em. Pity. But not really.

Yeah, so he was well aware that he was a ghost – a poltergeist, a conjuring, whatever associations or terms the youth called it nowadays. He’d been the spectacle of quite many a séance now that those were in, always to the dismay of the trickster leading those. Sure, he didn’t mind talking to folks, provided they weren’t up to any funny business and weren’t prissy rich sods. It was just that most of them didn’t as much _appreciate_ as to what exactly he had to say then. All they wanted was some “boo”s and “aah”s, maybe a “life is a fleeting thing that must be treasured at all costs also tell my wife that I love her” here and there. Crowley didn’t have a wife, currently, or at least he thought he didn’t. Could never be too sure with his fleeting (meaning nonexistent) memory. But he was fairly certain if he’d gotten betrothed over the century it would have had at least enough of an impact for him to remember a teeny tiny bit. The institution of marriage did always leave a stale taste in his ghostly mouth, and he had half the mind to assume that was a vague memory.

Or more muscle memory. You know. From back when he was alive. Back then marriage was all the craze. Marriage, having kids, dying. He was 85% certain he’d done the last part, the others not so much. 1 out of 3 wasn’t too shabby.

Where was he? Oh, right. Things he hated. Add _marriage_ to that list, why don’t ya. Why not go ahead and put in _courtship_ as well. And _humans_ , well… he didn’t hate humans per se, humans were funny. Humans were to ghosts what ghosts were to humans: a delightful jest to pass the time if the radio didn’t offer any relief. Sort of like chatting to fellas from oversees. They talked funny, wore fancy hats and were to be enjoyed with caution, and in doses. Crowley’d had to deal with an occasional ghost hunter or two – fools, every single last one of ‘em. He pitied those.

He just for some unknown reason had a deep bitter feeling in his stomach whenever he thought too long about humanity and humans and their institutions. Like a lemon at the pit of his not-belly. Resentment. Not too sure why that was, emotions from back then were funny like that. He couldn’t remember anything, but he could remember the biggest emotions ebbing through, especially those from his last days. Those deep, overwhelming void like emotions were the sole reason he was here, after all. Ghosts needed a _reason_ to stay down. You just generally tended to float off. Turns out that he had unresolved anger issues. So he’d been spared the big bad empty, in exchange for the big bad now.

He could remember dying. Would not recommend. Maybe even half as bad as marriage. But certainly worse than humans, British weather, customer service, fancy hats, the newest fashion, horse carriage rides, books and men combined. Tended to shoot a hole right through one and one’s future plans.

Where- Bugger, he kept getting off track. Such was life as a ghost, you tended to lose your head, both literally and figuratively, quite a lot. One really needed to focus to get anything done around here. Usually he had the hang of it, just like he’d gotten the hang of floating off into nonexistence when he didn’t particularly feel like existing in this hemisphere. Crowley had so lovingly even come up with a new term for such dozing – he liked to call it “ _taking a nap_ ”.

Crowley _took naps_ a lot. One lasted a few months, years if he was lucky. He’d missed quite a many fashion faux pas that way. He’d just woken up from one a few days ago, to an annoying irritation.

Speaking of irritation: Intruders! That’s what he’d been philosophizing about, yes! He _despised_ those. And he was currently trying to deal with one, except that – well, except that this one just seemed a little different than others.

* * *

His newest nuisance was called Mr. Fell. Haha, very clever last name. He didn’t buy it, not one bit. And those side burns? Ooof, those sideburns just spelled trouble. So did the quite frankly monstrous amount of brick like books he had collected and brought to the shop over the days. Crowley watched him work from his place in between the shadows (or sometimes just standing right next to him, not like he had anyone to impress) and cracked his non existing knuckles. This could be fun, this polter business.

The man had to have some gumption and conviction though, to even 1. manage to find the one vacant store in London that was certified haunted and 2. end up buying the whole bloody thing. Even after the realtor had first shown him the place with a “are you absolutely sure, Mister? Enter at your own risk, then. I’ll stay right here.” (Served him right, that pompous arse) And to try to turn it into a _book_ shop? Again?? Hadn’t Crowley danced this whole dance before?

It was bad etiquette to buy up the house of a grumpy ghost and then stack it full off paperbacks, didn’t he know that? Why did no one know that in this century? What was he supposed to do with his overflowing free time now except haunt this man? He had no choice, really.

At first he started slow during the whole moving in process. A couple cold spots here, wet slippery floor there, cutlery and books thrown about, the usual. Standard ghost business. That all worked out just fine, and Mr. Fell even acknowledged the trouble. He just didn’t seem to care. Just went through said cold spots and muttered to himself “Oh dear, that seems bothersome” or looked at the thrown about books and declared “it would take QUITE a miracle for these books to stay where I put them” and that was that then. The books stayed on chairs and tables, for some ungodly reason. Crowley could still manipulate cold spots, mind, but the books were off limits now – even if he tried. Which bothered him. Bothered him more than anything else this past decade, and there’d been a lot to be disgruntled about.

There was something not quite right with this man. At first he’d chalked it up to lighting, but during closer inspection, Mr. Fell almost seemed to… glow? He had this chilling aura around him, all warm and fuzzy, like nothing Crowley had experienced before. Humans generally just tended to … have the auras of humans. A little muddy, a little like warm cold tea. Meh. This one? Whoo, Crowley had to be cautious not to stand _too_ close, so as not to get infected with all these warm, forthcoming, loving feelings. Made him want to cocoon himself into all that warmth and just drift off. Whenever he stepped too close, probably just to irritably blow some ghost bad breath into his face, his mind just went to friendly places, and why even bother haunting this nice fellow in the first place? Why not just let him be? Which was – in Crowley’s experience – the first road to absolute _ruin_. Humans in his house weren’t _nice_ , they couldn’t be. They were unwelcome guests and that was that.

Mr. Fell was an unwelcome and uninvited guest. He just had to try harder to rattle him.

* * *

“OooOoOooOoOOoOOoOooOoOoOoOoOOOOoooOoh”

His human was currently pacing the designated living room. Crowley had decided to dissipate his usual dapper (or he thought so, he didn’t have a reflection) ghostly self to turn himself into fog, so he could more efficiently haunt his victim from all sides. Efficiency – that was important these days. One had to impress. Crowley’s reputation as fearful horror attraction was at stake here – he couldn’t afford to lose.

Mr. Fell didn’t seem, or want to, notice. He just kept anxiously pacing. He kept muttering something about a “Gabriel” coming to visit and how bad it would seem that he wasn’t as far with his asset as he’d hoped. Whatever the bloody hell that meant – to Crowley it just meant that another home invader was potentially making his way into his house.

Crowley was well aware that his ghost voice wasn’t as loud as an actual human’s, so he made sure to clear his throat, then try again. “I _said_ , AHEM,” he coughed again for good measure, “bbBOOooooOOOooooOOOOOOooOoOoh~”

“Oh no what do I do what do I do what do I do what do I do,” was all the answer he got from his targeted victim. “Didn’t even clean up, _stupid_ Aziraphale” Crowley felt like a laughing stock of the ghost community. All foggy and mysterious – yet here he was making a fool out of himself. He wondered if any of the poor ghostly sods in the Buckingham Palace had any such problems, or if that was just him.

Crowley felt like taking a nap, but he knew that he shouldn’t. He was out of options, he desperately didn’t want any more humans coming in here. He’d been fine just mindlessly vegetating around these rooms for years now, occasionally drifting back into consciousness to jest with a séance fanatic or two. He liked his not life like that perfectly well. He didn’t want it to change.

So, he did the only sensible thing he could do at this point: strike a vicious blow of ghost fog deadliness into his victim’s turned back. While it was true that he wasn’t a physical being, that didn’t mean that he couldn’t throw a mean right hook if he wanted to. The same rules as telekinesis applied there, if he just concentrated long and hard, and got _angry_ enough he could do it. He generally always had a baseline of angriness to take power from, but now – whew, now he was well and truly pissed off.

Crowley made to take a run-up, filled to the brim with righteous anger, tunnelled ahead, was a hair’s breadth away from Mr. Fell’s shoulder and then – He reached a closure. A blocking. Without even thinking too much of it, the human just noticed the slight assault, did a weird sort of gesture where it looked like he was wiping off dust from his suit’s shoulder pads. That action alone slammed Crowley back so forcefully that his startled being transformed back into his translucent ghost form, complete with a not back to hit the wall. And hit the wall he did. _Damn_ , did he hit the wall. Let’s repeat that, shall we: _He_ hit the _wall_. His shoulders ached, as if they had any actual muscles to tear. There was no air in his lungs, which was usually how it was, but now he truly _felt_ it. He felt out of breath.

“What,” Crowley finally let out after a deafening silence, staring off into space and contemplating his failed existence, “on. Earth.” Apparently slamming a ghost into the wall wasn’t too memorable, because dear Mr. Fell had already made his way to another room, panic mode still on going. He was looking through files and cussing in variously adorable expressions Crowley had never heard before. It would have been endearing if it didn’t mean that his actions from five seconds before had apparently been just a small self defence mechanism? Which frightened Crowley, truth be told. No medium in the world that he knew of could do that.

Was Mr. Fell a … witch? Did Crowley really land himself a witch as an unwelcome tenant? (Or even worse: a devout catholic) That was just his luck, wasn’t it? Splendid.

Before his vision went back to its usual ghostly self, he felt the sensation of specks of dust falling on his brow bone and nose. Dust normally never bothered him, he couldn’t even feel it, but now? Now it’d answered his burning question of ‘could ghosts sneeze?’ Answer: Yes. Yes, they could.

From two rooms over he could just about make out a reply of “Bless you!” said his way offhandedly, without thinking apparently. Crowley just threw his hands up in the air as a show of bewilderment.

Yes, he decided. He could take that nap now.


	2. first encounter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Turns out, Aziraphale ain't afraid of no ghosts. Crowley makes two new friends.  
> TW for not really but implied but also not really animal abuse?

His reprieve was short lived though, because sure enough there it was: Another one of his sort. Male witch, catholic, whatever. Crowley had never much cared for particular labels. All he knew was that the very next day someone strutted into the store like they owned the place. At first he’d been delighted, eyeing the chance to further ruin this man’s career and soil any potential for the profiting business he was hoping for. Word travelled fast in London, and it travelled even faster when his schemes were involved. Brits loved a good ghastly horror story.

So he’d been ready to pounce any moment, but again like the first inspection of Mr. Fell this stranger too did feel off. Warm aura yes, but this time there was a cold undercurrent in there, almost menacing. It seemed alarming. Was this the Gabriel Mr. Fell had been so anxious about? He seemed like a Gabriel. He was too, exactly like Mr. Fell, all dressed in white. Were they this rich that they were able to afford fabric like this?

Crowley had gracefully declined the offer to haunt at this particular time, thank you very much. He wasn’t feeling well, and besides, something (that something being the aura in the room) seemed to tell him to hide. And he always trusted his base instincts.

“Aziraphale,” the stranger said, flexing his shoulders experimentally. “It’s been so very long.”

Mr. Fell – Aziraphale, he was currently trying and failing to act nonchalant, supporting himself on a stack of books in a painfully obvious sign of panic. If Crowley had any not-hands to rub right now, he would surely do so with a smirk. This seemed interesting. “Gabriel, heh,” he replied, deepening his voice a significant amount. To Crowley it just sounded shrill. “Old sport! How glad I am to have you visit my humble abode.”

“Humble, indeed,” Gabriel noted with disdain, looking at the dusty floors and poor interior design. Crowley felt scandalized, like he was being judged. (This one was definitely catholic.)

_Excuse me._

“So you bought this? With human money?” ‘ _Human money’_ thought Crowley, bewildered. What did _that_ mean. Gabriel wrinkled his nose in disgust, as if the thought alone of living here was repellent to him. “What do they call it now?”

“Pounds,” Aziraphale cheerfully supplied, wriggling his fingers an impossibly fast amount. My, how very child like he seemed in this moment. Crowley almost pitied the man. Almost. “What brings you …” He gestured vaguely with his hands, something Crowley couldn’t seem to understand. “… down here?”

Gabriel waved him off, walking closer and closer, like a bird circling its prey. Both Aziraphale and the ghostly fog around him seemed on edge. The closer those two familiar, yet so very different auras, got towards each other, the more Crowley could see the one bullying the other into submission. It felt like the stranger’s sheer presence seemed to stifle Aziraphale’s shining light. And what was worse, the whole battle of dominance seemed almost involuntarily. And entirely one sided.

“Oh, you know,” Gabriel said, showcasing his frankly grotesque shining teeth and clapping Mr. Fell comradely on his shoulder. “Just checking in with my inferiors. I meant associates. Regular procedure. Don’t you fret.” Again with that smile, this time it was probably meant to signal sympathy. Crowley could see Aziraphale visibly swallow, his Adams apple bobbing up and down. “Ever since your little faux pas in Paris, the upstairs has been very, hmm, keen on keeping tabs on you, Aziraphale. Just in case you need help, you see.”

Crowley had the sudden urge to yell out “Leave him alone, he’s doing his best” and glare at the stranger with all his might. But was he? And what did he mean with _upstairs_? Crowley knew very, very well that there were no other tenants on the other floors. He checked regularly. Were they talking about the rats? Was Mr. Fell fraternizing with rodents? He hoped not. The _stories_ those buggers could tell about him.

“Oh, thank you,” Mr. Fell replied hurriedly, obviously lying, “but you mustn’t go to all the trouble on my behalf. I’m fine, really. I have got a lid on… on the other side. And I took your so kindly worded letter to heart, I really did. As you can see, I- “

Gabriel slapped him on the shoulder again, harder this time. A sign for him to stop talking. Rude. “Right, right, I noticed. Good job. As I told you, a certain … diet always works best. In any and all aspects.” Just as he was about to take a step back, the stranger did the scandalous gesture of light-heartedly patting Aziraphale’s protruding stomach. If Crowley had a mouth currently, he would have gasped in shock. As it was, Aziraphale’s vastly reddening cheeks and ears were the only evidence that action had ever taken place. “You should have this place checked out as well, make sure all the vermin are, hmm, eradicated. Cheers.”

Aziraphale didn’t say a word, even as the stranger bowed his head and left, the door jingling annoyingly as he went off with the wind. After it was all over, he just breathed a sigh of relief and sadly touched his own soft stomach with a hesitant finger.

Crowley’s fog form was boiling, seething with rage for this man that _he_ ’d wanted to irritate in the first place. He should be delighted the man’s superiors were so tough on him, that would make his job easier and go more according to his plan.

But goddamn it, causing Aziraphale grief was _his_ job. And nobody bloody else’s.

And Mr. Fell wasn’t _obese_ , how dare he.

* * *

Since his scheme right now was working less than smoothly, Crowley decided to forego the whole spiel with the rattling cutlery and moving of furniture. Somehow it seemed that a chair moved slightly to the right would rattle him and his stamina more than Aziraphale. So he went with more drastic measures. But those measures required a sacrifice. One he was oh so willing to take.

But he needed a lamb. Or, well, a rat in his case. But whenever he tried to find one in the various cracks and crevices underneath the floorboards, he never seemed to catch one unexpectedly. It was as if they’d had a group meeting and decided to stray as far away from him as possible. Stupid, smart rodents.

It was no bother. He would just have to set his trap more carefully. While Mr. Fell wasn’t around, mind you. He didn’t need him to see him like this, back in his porous imitation of a body, crouching on the floor with the door ajar. Well, at first glance it seemed like he was crouching, but if you looked closely the trained eye could clearly see that his not-knees weren’t touching the ground. A crouching simulation. Because there was a rat outside, curiously sniffing the wet street for the scent of food.

Crowley would never, ever admit this to any other soul, dead or otherwise, but what he’d been doing just before he’d seen it had just been lounging. Mindlessly flipping books open and closed with brushes of wind, blowing out candles and igniting them again, idly wondering when his favourite nuisance would be back from his trip. Curiosity was nagging at him, he wanted to know what Mr. Fell the sleaze was up to. Who knows, maybe he was contacting a medium. That could be fun.

He’d felt the vibrations of the rat’s snout trying to make its way into the floorboards outside first. Like it was pushing at his own not-skin to be let in. At first, he thought his mind was tricking him, but no, there it was. All ripe for the taking. And so he scrambled upright, gasped, and without thinking yelled “RAT!” as loud and shrill as he could, and frankly with far more enthusiasm than anyone should ever muster for those disease bringers. “Rat, rat, there’s a rat! Rat?!” It seemed to have heard him, standing still and craning its small head. “ _Rat_!”

He just somehow managed not to tear the door off its hinges in his excitement. The rat didn’t seem to mind his enthusiasm too terribly, it still hadn’t really moved an inch when he saw it for the first time. No fear, and bigger than normal specimen. London’s rat population was a whole different beast entirely.

Crowley felt like an idiot, but for some reason he decided to outstretch his hand as if he wanted to pet it. The rat didn’t seem impressed. “Well, hello there,” he cooed, barely containing his excitement, “Good sir. Gentleman rat. Mr Odent. You seem like a friendly fellow.” The rat now lovingly nicknamed Mr Odent wasn’t buying what he had to offer yet. And what he had to offer was very little.

Thing was, normally rats didn’t really see him, so catching one had never really been too much of a challenge. This was different, though. Raised stakes. And so he did the sound he often saw used for other smaller creatures to make the human doing it seem trustworthy: he “psipsipsi”ed the rat. Right there on the streets. With all of his neighbours (they would see nothing but a vague shape, but still) ready to witness his shame. He just really needed this cohabitation situation to be resolved as soon as possible.

The rat just sniffed again, but gradually grew more confident and walked closer with its tiny, tiny feet. So close. Those tiny feet could make or break his fate, stop his impending doom. If Crowley had glands he would be sweating profusely. Trying to make himself seem visible to a small animal was harder work than he’d anticipated. “Psss, do you want cheese? I imagine you’d like some cheese, wouldn’t you? Oh, yes, you would,” he animatedly whispered, as if he was in cahoots with Mr Odent. Maybe he was. It was adorable, after all. In a rat sort of way. “Well, we sadly don’t have any cheese, but do you want to know what we do have? Paper. Just stacks of paper, with the most exquisite ink on it. So much paper. Mmmhhhmmmm, _delicious_. Makes me salivate just thinking about it. And, and! More rats!”

Crowley gestured wildly around himself, looking mad. “So many of your friends are staying here for rent, won’t you come inside? I’ll introduce you to them. It’ll all be such fun, trust me!” The rat was turning away for some reason. Crowley panicked, tried to snap his fingers and failed. “Psssssss. Hey! You there! Don’t you dare walk away from me, young man. Don’t you _dare_.” His voice grew darker, more dangerous. He felt actively homicidal staring straight into those button-like eyes. “If you do, I will find you, I swear on it. I will find you and your family, and I will… Well, I won’t be so cheery next time, trust me.” He wouldn’t be able to follow up on his promise, he knew that. He couldn’t pass the house’s threshold, after all. But he had no problem lying through his teeth, and damned if he didn’t do it well.

Manipulation and threats didn’t seem to do the trick, so he tried a different method. Crowley stopped outstretching his hand and sighed, desperately wishing he could place his face in between his hands right now. “I’m sorry, I just,” he sighed again, defeated, “I just really need this right now. I apologize for threatening your family. I’m sure they’re wonderful specimen. But I’m desperate. You don’t know what living alongside someone else has been doing to my sleep schedule. It’s atrocious. Next thing I know, my, my face will be littered with wrinkles, and… and shadows, and I!” He flailed his arms helplessly. “I won’t even be able to see them, bloody hell! Stupid ghost business, this not being able to see yourself stick. All I can see are my hands and feet and well,” He looked down upon his hands, studied the assortment of lines there, “if my hands are anything to go by, I don’t have much youth left to begin with. Don’t suppose you know what that’s like. How long do your species survive? A few years?”

In between this tale of woes, Crowley had been blissfully unaware that by now the rat _had_ indeed stepped inside. He hadn’t noticed, too busy telling an empty street corner his body insecurities. Which was again just like him, wasn’t it? But when he did manage to look up and find the spot in front of him vacant but the rat deliciously close to him now, actually crawling around _underneath_ his hovering not-feet, he squealed. Also not one of his greatest moments. Carefully, ever so carefully, he closed the door with a fresh breath of wind. Click.

Hook, line, and sinker.

“You fool,” he laughed, standing up and regarding the rat with murderous glee. “You halfwit clown. You shouldn’t believe everything a desperate man tells you on these streets. Shouldn’t eagerly trust strangers, even if they pour their heart out to you. Did your parents never teach you that?”

His plan could well and truly start now. Time for this rat’s demise. This adorable, doe eyed, surprisingly soft looking rat. This friend he’d just met. This … rat. Mr Odent.

Which was currently looking up at him like it knew what he was planning on doing. Surprising expression in those eyes, too. Hmm.

_Damn._

“Oh, bugger off,” he muttered, defeated. “Alright, alright, alright. Don’t look at me like that. Your time hasn’t come. Yet.” The rat sniffed, then slithered away with surprising speed. There went his last hope. All because he couldn’t bear to end a life, even one as little and as insignificant as that. Because he’d gotten attached, like he tended to do. He was the fool here. The laughing stock.

“Great. Now what?”

* * *

He made do. Just like he always did. Story of his life. Had found a rat carcass underneath one too many creaks of wood, just lying there. The body hadn’t been there for long, stiff as it was. Fresh blood was best, but this one would do the trick just as well.

Crowley was shimmering with excitement and barely contained glee. If this didn’t spook Mr. Fell, nothing did. Maybe he should take a liking to his superior from days before and insult him on his weight as well, but Crowley wouldn’t stoop so low as that. He had manners, after all. He wasn’t entirely sure who raised him, but he was sure that person didn’t raise a mean person. Or how was the term for it now? Ratbag? Heh, how fitting. That person surely didn’t raise a ratbag.

He was currently hovering in the far-right corner of the shop’s entrance, and if gravity held sway over his form he would be crouching on an old creaky closet. Thank god he didn’t, because the wood’s surface hadn’t been cleaned in quite some time, and Crowley really didn’t feel like repeating the sneezing incident from a few days prior. As it was, he was just there. Hovering. But doing so excitedly.

The key turning in the lock gave his insistent buzzing pause. The show was starting. His main audience had entered the building, gleefully unaware of the horror that would await him. He was bringing with him a bag of… tea and more books? Alright. Fine. At least he was here, finally back from his daily excursions. His aura warm and sated, but fuzzy.

And he was talking to himself. “ _Preferred clientele,_ fine fine,” he was muttering under his breath, throwing his keys onto a desk. He could feel this man’s presence in his house like a splinter in his hand. “What’s not preferred about me? As if I can’t be civil, pfff. Can only aristocrats eat galette these days? What is humanity coming to?” He was mumbling and stumbling, loosening his necktie and hanging up his coat without taking a look at his surroundings. Crowley couldn’t wait. His surprise would be visible soon enough.

_If you could just… yes, just… no, don’t look there, to the right- Oh, damn it._

Crowley rolled his eyes dramatically, sighed and took the moment in which Aziraphale was rummaging through his belongings to telekinetically rattle the closet in front of him. A lot. He’d learned his lesson, subtlety wasn’t required here. He almost even yelled out “Hey” if Mr. Fell didn’t take that moment to sharply turn around to inspect the sudden noise. Crowley sighed in relief. He didn’t particularly feel like doing anymore furniture shifting today, not after writing his message had been strenuous enough. Speaking of message, Aziraphale stepped forward into the room just enough, candle in hand (when did he get that?), one hand on the left wall. He was squinting, tilting his head and looking at the mess in front of him.

There on the wall, the mouldy and spotty wall, it read a message. An omen. Written in blood, evidently. Barely dried blood, some of it still dripping off onto the floor. It was just one word, but that word was so enormous it almost spun the entire wall. Underneath it lay the dead carcass of a rat, on its back, its belly torn open to reveal tiny insides. Apparently used to write the word.

****

**_LEAVE_ **

****

“Oh,” was all his victim muttered out, looking at his masterpiece. Crowley was quite proud of himself. “Well. Hmmm.”

 _Well? Hmmm??_ Were those adequate reactions to this kind of grotesque artistry?! Crowley was well and truly livid now. “Hmmm? _HmMMM_?!” Crowley seethed from his position in the shadows. “Are you kidding me?”

Aziraphale spun around wildly, trying to locate the voice. His pupils were enlargened, and Crowley rolled his eyes as he realized that _now_ he’d truly been spooked. Dead rats and bloody walls were one thing, while being yelled at was something else entirely. Good to know. Crowley purposefully slid deeper into the shadows, attempting to become one with the wall, not entirely gone but still wrapped in just enough of darkness that he wasn’t instantly recognizable. “Who’s there?” Aziraphale asked, fright evident in his wobbly tone.

Again Crowley rolled his eyes. Who knew, maybe they would roll out of his head and out of the door if he did it long enough. “No one, piss off,” he muttered.

“Who- wha- where- Oh.” He seemed to have spotted him. Hooray. That burning gaze was fixed right on him, on his spot from the shadows. “Why are you sitting atop my closet?”

Crowley snorted furiously. “Not _sitting_ , mind you. Levitating. There’s a difference. And it’s not _your_ closet, it’s _my_ closet. This is my home.” He made to stand up and then gracefully levitated towards the flabbergasted man with his mouth agape in awe. Not in terror. That was new. Crowley prided himself on his spooky levitation skills, and not even that frightened this lunatic. So he coughed, deepened his voice and spit out: “You foolish boy. You have awoken something malevolent, ancient. A menacing creature far older than your mortal mind could compre- “

“Actually, I’m not a mortal,” Aziraphale interrupted him, all excitedly bouncing up and down. “And I’m almost 5 thousand years old, or well this body is. My true form, that’s a different story. You ought to stop counting after a while.” After noticing Crowley bewildered expression, he went on. “Oh, I’m sorry! Gosh, alright, you must be the ghost, right? I’d- I’d heard the rumours but never believed for a second that- “

“You should have believed them.” This was growing tiresome. Crowley needed to up the dramatics, so he took a hold of a knife out of the kitchen and brought it to him in one final, fast whoosh. Holding objects like this always felt wobbly, like tying them to a string, but this time he held the string as tight as he could. “I don’t like intruders invading my peace.” The knife was inches away from Mr Fell’s eyeball, who in turn just marvelled at the trick.

“Oh, _wow_ , that is _amazing_!” he exclaimed, completely unbothered by the fact that Crowley was threatening to poke his eyes out if he didn’t stop spouting nonsense. “Matter manipulation, and that with such force and precision, just marvellous! Not even every principality can pull that off, I can tell you. You must be quite the powerful spirit.”

If Crowley were alive, he would be blushing furiously now. He’d not gotten a compliment in …. Well, not ever. Not since he’d died. And the compliments from Before were obviously not monumental, since he couldn’t remember even the littlest most mundane one. He felt awkward, standing here and threatening this man that was paying him compliments. He’d just painted on a wall with blood. Crowley felt shy, to say the least. “Uhhh, thank you…” He didn’t know what else to say. Of all the ways he’d anticipated this to go, this was certainly not one of even the wildest possibilities.

“Oh, you’re very welcome.” Aziraphale smiled happily at him. Being this close to him toned down Crowley’s anger from before, again made him feel warm inside. At peace. It was a new sensation, and not entirely unwelcome. “Did you write that on the wall? That is quite a beautiful handwriting, distinct. What is it? Late 18th century?”

“Uhhhh…”

“Oh, no bother! Gosh, me, meeting a ghost, huh? Oh, it is ghost, correct? Or do you prefer the term spirit? It’s important to be respectful of someone’s preferences, I know. Or ghoul?” The man seemed genuinely interested. He didn’t know what to make of it.

Crowley looked around his surroundings. He left the knife fall with a small _clang_ on the floor. _What_ was _happening_ to him? “Ghost’s fine. Or … either. Both. Neither. I don’t care.” He coughed, tried to get a hold of his emotional bearings. Experimentally hovered away from him, just to have that barrier between them. He didn’t like his feelings being meddled with, even if Aziraphale most likely didn’t even know he was doing it. He coughed. “Why aren’t you scared of me?” he asked, because really, why wasn’t he?

Aziraphale just shrugged, still delighted, even if the sudden distance saddened him a little. “Why would I be? I’m an angel, you see, we don’t fall victim to hauntings or the like. I mean, it’s unheard of, I’ve never met an angel who- “

He was a _what_?! “Wait a minute,” he waved his arms dramatically around, desperately trying to get this man to stop talking for a second. “Wait wait wait _what_? An angel?! There’s no such thing!” Because really, who did he think he was? Mediums? Yes. Witches? Yes. But angels? Actual winged principalities of God, watching over humanity with their soft wings and their harps and golden blonde locks and naked chiselled chests? No. Uhuh. He knew for a fact those didn’t exist because if they did, then how come no one had ever showed their hide around here and dragged him off to heaven? Or more likely, even if he couldn’t pinpoint why, hell. Impossible, unfathomable. “You’re insane. I’m chatting with a lunatic.”

Aziraphale just gave him a judgemental look. “You mean the same way that there’s no such thing as ghosts? And yet, here we stand. Or … hover.” Crowley hated to admit it, he had a point. Here they hovered. Apparent angel and ghost, living under one roof. Shit.

“Shit,” Crowley said out loud for good measure, because shit. Shit. Bloody hell.

The man – not a man, shit, the _angel_ – next to him looked scandalized. As if a little profanity would worsen the situation right now. “Well, I’m- I’m Aziraphale. It’s nice to meet you. And you must be …?” He was obviously waiting for an answer Crowley wasn’t sure if he wanted to give. He’d always thought telling someone one’s name gave that person power over one’s self. So he fell silent. Aziraphale just went on, stumbling over his own words in his haste. “Alright, we- we can exchange formalities later. I would just like to say that it’s an honour to meet you and to, gosh, to. To live with you. You see, to be honest, truth be told, if I ought to be completely honest, I … I have been dying – _oh_ , sorry, is that offensive? – I have been _trying_ desperately to form a hu- any form of connection with someone for the last oh, four centuries. And so far, no dice. But it seems like, I just know it, deep in my gut. I know we will be the very best of friends, don’t you reckon?”

Crowley felt like it bared repeating: _Shit_. What was _happening_ here? In his li- in his existence? “Bold of you to presume I would want to be your friend,” he said, because really, how dare he? Crowley had other friends, thank you very much. That was what the rats were for. (Maybe he _was_ a ratbag.)

Aziraphale gave him a look that conveyed ‘Oh please’ perfectly. He turned around and gestured towards the bloody mess on the wall. Right. They’d both forgotten about that fiasco. “You were willing to gut an animal to gain my attention and well, you have it now. We’re well past the point of boldness, wouldn’t you agree?”

Crowley contemplated that for a moment. It did seem desperate for approval in hindsight. “Hmm, valid point. But have you considered yet that maybe I don’t want or need friends? Hmm? Maybe I’m fine just on my own?” Even he could spot that lie from a mile away, but still. He wasn’t about to let down easy.

Again with that judgemental look. “My dear,” Aziraphale started, with all the patience parents possessed with their children, “You just killed and gutted a rat. Evidently you are not _fine_. Speaking of …” He turned back around, and with a snap of his fingers the mess on the floor and wall started dissipating and sizzling away from the wall into the air. Crowley just blinked and let it happen. It wasn’t the craziest thing to happen tonight.

“Not _my dear_. Name’s Crowley. Oh and I didn’t… I didn’t kill it,” he swallowed, suddenly feeling bashful all over again. “I found it like that. It’d taken a bite out of one of your paperbacks and fell ill due to some chemicals. Your passion is a safety hazard, Mr. Fell.”

Aziraphale gasped in shock, clearly more heartbroken over the copy than over the dead being. “Oh, oh _no_! Which one?”

Crowley snorted, said “Funny, here I thought angels valued life above all else. God’s creation and all that.”

Aziraphale just shrugged coyly. “That, too. But the _books_.” He turned around to inspect the mess again, but this time it had been completely cleared. “Ah, jolly well. So, which one?” Crowley wondered where the rat went. Maybe he’d teleported it into the Thames. Rest in pieces.

Crowley pursed his lips thinking. He didn’t know, truthfully. He’d just guessed. But the angel’s reaction was amusing considering his profession. “Oh, the deadliest of them all. And one of complete fabrication, scandal and violence and murder. And nudity. Venomous. The bible.”

Aziraphale didn’t seem to find his joke as amusing as Crowley did. Oh well, his loss. “That is _not_ funny,” he glared dramatically.

Crowley just laughed at his overreaction. He looked at the angel in front of him, Aziraphale, and his stupid ridiculous sideburns and his bow tie. Crouching down as if to physically wipe the floor, even though they both knew damn well he wouldn’t. His hair was blonde, yes, but perfect it was not. There were quite a few strands of locks sticking out every which way, resembling hay much more than a halo.

Crowley grinned. Thought ‘ _this will be fun_ ’.


	3. lifting spirits

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale and Crowley experiment. Angel + ghost = ?

Aziraphale had called for a house meeting – one in which all persons living under the same roof, rats excluded, had to be present. He’d felt that… Well, he’d felt that the newest change in his living space warranted a formal meeting like that. He was tired of awkward forced small talk in between his lunch break. That, and… he was excited. He hadn’t had a companion in quite a few centuries, and a non-human one at that! Aziraphale was particularly giddy with the idea of potential bonding.

Crowley wasn’t having it. He wasn’t having a lot of things – Aziraphale had noticed that about his new friend early on. But he complied, and Aziraphale thought that said a lot more about his character than his being dead ever did.

That didn’t mean Crowley suddenly was incapable of complaint. Or of being painstakingly annoyed. “Alright, what’s this whole shtick about? Can we get on with it already, got a lot of important ghost business to settle,” he nagged, hovering just above a chair, giving anyone who didn’t look close enough the impression that he was sitting down with his arms crossed. His form was just oh so slightly translucent, red locks falling onto his back and shoulders in a mess. Peasant garments in disarray (they looked very early to mid-18th century, but Aziraphale couldn’t be sure), plain as they were. He looked… good. Grumpy, but good. His aura, the very essence of his soul Aziraphale could see eclipsing onto his shoulders and engulfing him looked enticing. There wasn’t anything wrong with complimenting a fellow man’s aura, Aziraphale didn’t think. At least not when it came to ghosts. Humans, now that was another matter altogether. But he couldn’t help it – his acquaintance did look good. Had a sort of devilish look to him. Aziraphale had always dabbled a little too closely towards the other side, in the friends department of course. He knew he had a problem with what Gabriel had once called “bad boys”. He briefly wondered if Crowley had been ‘bad’ as a human but decided against asking.

Said bad boy coughed obnoxiously. “Well?” he asked, clearly feeling shy at being regarded this intensely. Aziraphale felt that not a lot of people had regarded Crowley in the last few centuries, which was honestly a shame. “Haven’t got all day.”

Aziraphale caught his deteriorating thoughts and brought them brusquely to a halt. “Oh yes,” he said, laughing and sitting down on his own chair. He’d bought food for the occasion, and drink. No situation could never be improved with a tea break. “I scheduled this meeting to… well, to clear the air“ Crowley looked at him sharply and Aziraphale coughed, catching himself. “I meant to … to settle business. Business between us. Housewarming, so to speak.” He shrugged, feeling awkward. Aziraphale had never been a fan of holding speeches, of being a leader, not even way back in heaven. He gestured in front of himself, at the steaming tea and biscuits he’d bought just this evening. “I bought you something!”

Crowley looked at him strangely, looked towards the table, then back at him. He blinked dumbly. “Ghosts don’t eat. No digestive system.”

“No? Nothing? That seems frightful!”

“That’s the idea.”

 _Of course! Stupid, stupid angel_ – how could he have presumed to know?! He could have hit himself. Here he was, angering his only friend in centuries, shortly after having met him. He just couldn’t be helped. “Oh. Oh, uhhhh, right…” Aziraphale frantically pulled out the leathered notebook and golden pen from his breast pocket to write down _‘GHOSTS NO BOWELS!!’_ in his scribbled handwriting. He needed training, it’s not like they had sent him to school or any tutoring before they placed him in this body. English was a relatively young language too. Lettering was even younger. Those teachings were in infancy compared to him.

“Are you making notes?” Crowley thought out loud, bewildered.

Aziraphale didn’t bother answering him, too busy underlining the ‘bowel’ part. Twice. “What about drink, then? Tea?” He held his pen, nervously awaiting his reply. “And this is exactly the business I was talking about earlier. How am I to know these things?”

“Have you ever seen a ghost _eat_?! Although – you most likely haven’t seen _any_ ghosts, lucky bastard.” Crowley’s form shimmered beautifully, an array of colours. Ghosts didn’t usually seem like much to a human’s eye, but to an angel’s? They were amazing forces of nature. Something to be studied and treasured. Or at least to Aziraphale. “And to answer your earlier question: Depends. Tea? No. Water? Naah. But – and don’t you _dare_ ask me how I know this – wine? And I mean red wine by that, the very best you have? That I can deal with. Very well, in fact.” He shrugged. “Everyone has their vice.”

Aziraphale couldn’t help it, even as he scribbled down the answer, he already formed the words: “How do you know this?”

“I just said- never mind. I…” He laughed, a beautiful sound that resonated and echoed around the halls, although short lived (he really needed to stop using those particular idioms). Aziraphale wouldn’t mind being haunted like this. In some distant part of his brain he frantically tried to remember if he had any red wine in his storage room. Angels weren’t much drinkers, he was afraid. Crowley licked his lips and grinned, clearly amused at some form or memory he was just now fondly reminiscing. “Let’s just say,” he drawled smiling, “Let’s just assume that I had a very amusing afternoon with a couple of mediocre mediums at a séance. They were all terribly boring but not uncultured when it came to the important matters, and I decided to have a sip myself. Just to see if I could.”

Aziraphale’s imagination was running wild with those array of sentences and words strung together. He’d always considered séances to be a sort of _profession_ for a ghost. Serious business. Clearly not to this one. “You were boozed up at a séance?”

Crowley started wincing, though the smile never left his face. “I was… mildly inebriated at a laughing show, is what I was. And you don’t know what those tragedies are like for _ghosts_ , mind, especially boring ones! Bloody circus attraction.” He gestured wildly with his hands, his ghastly form going right through the mahogany of the chair and table, giving Aziraphale the impression that he was muzzed right now.

“Boring ghosts?” Did those even exist? Wasn’t being unique part of the profession’s description? Who knew, maybe Crowley was just an outlier and one in a million.

Crowley scoffed at him. “Boring _séances_ , angel. I always am terribly charming, you know I am. But I can only do so much if my dancing partner keeps constantly stepping on my toes.”

“There was dancing involved?” Aziraphale’s form visibly peaked up at that. He’d been to the gentleman three times by now and every time he left, he left with a sheen of sweat covering his entire body and a joyous mood no one could sour. Angels didn’t dance, despised it. Aziraphale adored it, for very much the same reason he adored most of everything at Earth: it was so deliciously human. What crazy bugger’d clapped their soles together and decided to call it an art form? In some cultures it was even hailed as a form of magic, much like his own miracles. Yes, Aziraphale loved dancing very much.

“It’s a metaphor, angel.” Which was why Crowley’s replying scrunched up nose and loud noise of disgust saddened him a little bit, but only a little. He was still just incredibly grateful to have a talking partner like this. The big, heavy question of how he’d died hang in the room, but neither felt the need to answer just yet. Aziraphale tried very hard to respect his boundaries and Crowley, well. Crowley was Crowley.

They argued quite a while about the quality of dance, as well as the value of mediums. Turns out, Aziraphale and Crowley didn’t agree on a lot of things. Which was partly what made discussion like this so incredibly fun.

Aziraphale could chat with this fella for hours. And they did.

* * *

It was now well and truly past any human’s bed time, but neither he nor Crowley had the need nor desire to go to sleep right now. The sun had started to set some time ago, but Crowley had just surprised him with curtly igniting every candle in the flat, much to Aziraphale’s delight. He was acting like he couldn’t do miracles of his own – though he’d never much considered those his _own_ work. He was just borrowing it from upstairs. His friend had no superior, it seemed. He liked that about him.

Crowley was currently hovering just above mid-air, on his back and his hands supporting his head. Aziraphale was breathing new warmth into his tea and enjoying some of those biscuits. He didn’t think Crowley objected to it, his glances could only be summarized as ‘annoyed but still fond’. Good, because Aziraphale loved eating and in that aspect didn’t much care if he’d offend any dead people in the room. And these biscuits had strawberry jam on them. _Strawberry jam._

“Garden of Eden?”

“Yep. I was the garden keeper. Along with a flaming sword. Mhh, those were the times.”

“ _Oooh_ , a sword, huh? Big shiny metal thing? Was it hot?” Crowley looked at him from under his lashes. It made him feel warm all around. Embarrassment? He wasn’t sure.

“Yes, but I gave it away,” he replied curtly under his breath. His mouth was already getting stuffed with sweetened food again.

“… You did _what_ now? To the humans? _Why??_ ”

Yes, that was definitely embarrassment. “Idontwannotalkaboutit”

“Come again?”

“I said I would very much prefer it if we changed the subject.” Crowley kept looking at him strangely. Aziraphale wasn’t sure if he liked that level of intensity, one that he couldn’t read. “So, what else?”

Silence. Then:

“… Leviathan?” Crowley asked, looking up at the ceiling and the stains on there. Aziraphale really ought to tidy up now that he had ever present company.

His own answer was slightly muffled from the crumbles still left in his mouth. “Oh, I think that one exists. I reckon. Has to. Why else did they write it in the book then, right?”

“Why did you guys write in eating shrimp as a deathly offense? Shellfish ban?? Not a lot to make sense there, huh?”

Aziraphale frowned in disgust and shuddered violently. He’d remembered that part. “Shrimp are _disgusting_. They don’t have any fins, or scales. Slimy bastards. And the _taste._ ”

That truly got his companion laughing then, full on howling that made him lose his footing on – on the air? Aziraphale wasn’t quite sure how it worked just yet, he’d reckoned it had an awful lot to do with concentration, as well as just sheer will and mindpower. Point was, Crowley’s form just then started wobbling dangerously. Aziraphale, gentleman that he was, put his hands in the air cautiously and muttered “Careful there, you’ll fall”, just after he’d realized that 1. He couldn’t catch him if he tried and 2. Spirits weren’t privy to the whims of gravity. His ghost friend was fine. He’d just made a fool out of himself. Crowley just laughed harder at him.

“What did shellfish ever do to you? Do all angels hate them?”

Aziraphale didn’t feel like answering with ‘I never asked’ which would make him look even more stupid and socially isolated, so he just went silent. That was answer enough it seemed. _This angel does._

Crowley regarded him fondly. “Does the consumption alone warrant death by stoning in your books?”

 _His books?_ “It does for those fishes. It’s offensive.”

“How are you supposed to stone _fish??_ They haven’t got that big of a head, and they can’t breathe air!” he exclaimed loudly and snorted. Even while he said it though, he turned back around to face Aziraphale. “No matter, I have another question. What’s with all the –“ He gestured wildly around with his arms, vaguely in the direction of Aziraphale.

“… Pardon?”

“Oh, you know what I mean.” He pointed some more, this time in a broad sweeping movement around his being. Aziraphale was still lost. “ _That_.”

“That?”

“Your… aura. The whole warm fuzziness surrounding you. Makes me want to gag.”

Aziraphale didn’t think he seemed fuzzy, but he noted that as a compliment nonetheless. He also hadn’t been aware before that he even had an aura, much less one as big as Crowley had described. Angels could see auras of course, but he hadn’t been aware before that spirits could, too. “Oh? I wasn’t aware.” He wasn’t. He regarded himself self-consciously, suddenly aware of his physique. As Gabriel so nicely pointed out, he wasn’t the fittest. “Is it very bad?”

“Urggh,” Crowley exclaimed. “It’s _disgusting_ , all that love just pouring of you in waves. Forgiveness. It’s all so incredibly… angelic. And I like being full of rage and hatred, so your whole shtick is very inconvenient for me.” Crowley laughed, sort of sadly. “My entire existence depends on it, in fact.”

“How do you mean?” He’d never thought of it like that before.

“Think about it, angel. A human soul only stays in this realm if they have unfinished business. Grudges to hold, necks and limbs and chest to sink their teeth into. Have you ever met a happy ghost?” Silence. He hadn’t, but he hadn’t met _any_ before. “Exactly. ‘S why we’re here… I think. My theory anyway, but one that I’ve tinkered with and perfected for centuries now. Trust me, I’ve been doing this for a long time. And anytime a ghost has settled whatever wrongness they or someone else has committed, they tend to pass on. Heaven or hell, down or up, you understand. It has to be something big, too, not just anything superficial. A soul hurt.”

His friend absentmindedly tried to touch his chest, his fingers waving right through the mist disappearing. “Like a wound, deep inside of you. And if any self-respecting ghost like me wants to stay on this earth they have got to let it grow deeper and let it fester. Let it infect our peaceful slumber, until we have no choice but to stay. Stay and wreak havoc. ‘S how poltergeists are born.”

“Oh,” Aziraphale thought, and felt it. _Oh._ That all seemed incredibly, overwhelmingly sad and he suddenly had the urge to reach out and comfort his friend. Only he couldn’t, it was neither wanted nor even possible. Aziraphale was at odds. Yes, anger was why he was here, why they met. But to spend a life in hurt? Or… an afterlife? That didn’t seem healthy to the angel, and he wished he could fix it. Human souls were precious and beautiful, even ‘infected’ ones as Crowley so crudely put it. And Crowley’s soul was shining like a beacon, beckoning towards him. He most likely had no idea how brightly he himself glowed, even now. “Why… why are you angry?”

“I have a lot of things to be grumpy about. An unlimited amount of resentment, don’t you worry.” Crowley just waved him off, though Aziraphale could tell he preferred not to dwell on it too long. “Although I may seem happy and relaxed in the moment, I am actually incredibly angry at all times. For various reasons, starting with you pushing me into the wall the other day.”

Aziraphale blinked, dumb founded. “I don’t remember.” He truly couldn’t.

His friend shrugged his ghost shoulders. “Ehh, you wouldn’t. Supposedly was as easy as breathing for you. But you, uhh… materialized me, for a minute there. When all I wanted was to beat you back to heaven or whence ever you came from. And you just… didn’t let it bother you.”

 _Oh._ That was intriguing. “In my defence, I _don’t_ find breathing easy. Sometimes I even forget humans need oxygen – especially the human body they’ve assigned me to.” He did. This body had a terrible habit of fainting, stupid lungs.

But back to the intrigue at hand – solidification? Aziraphale hadn’t been aware angels were capable of that, but evidently yes. The thought excited him for some reason. His friend being non corporal wasn’t a disability, hadn’t been so far, but Aziraphale was a rather touchy person. He liked to touch people, their hands most likely because it was socially acceptable. In some societies their cheeks. It amused him that humans had all the strict and dull etiquettes designed for interaction, as if they amounted to anything. “Would you like me to try?” He was already standing up, making his way towards the hovering form.

Crowley was clearly nervous. He couldn’t keep his focus; his form was bopping up and down anxiously. “Oh, I don’t know, I mean, I don’t know,” he said, repeating himself. “I mean… I haven’t really… materialized and touched another body in… Not ever.” Added with a sheepish glance: “Not until I met you.”

Aziraphale smiled, happy to be considered special for once. There hadn’t been many times. “Alright,” he said, and meant it. He wouldn’t push his friend, would respect his autonomy.

He’d just about made to sit back down when his anxious spirit companion halted him with stuttered words, hovering closer. “ _Wait_ , wait wait wait,” he repeated. “I’m not saying I don’t want to, it’s just… Oh, bloody hell! Fine, let’s do it. Not getting any younger, am I? You only die once, all that.”

Aziraphale looked at him with squinted eyes. “Are you absolutely certain?” He wasn’t convinced.

Crowley nodded frantically, his loose curls bumping up and down. He still looked grumpy, though, more than ever. But grumpy was his default, so Aziraphale wasn’t too worried. “Yes, damn, yes. Get on with it already, angel. Pull me into the light.”

The angel winced, clearly feeling at a loss. “That’s not really… how it’s done. I reckon.” It didn’t seem like it. Did it?

“Fine, slap me or stab me, I don’t care. Just do _something_ ,” Crowley grumbled, waving his hands in the air.

And so he did. And oh bugger – he was _so_ nervous; his palms were sweating. Profusely, out of every pore. Would Crowley be able to feel that, would this man’s first touch in centuries be the flimsy fondling of an awkward angel? How embarrassing. _Get it together, Aziraphale. You’re an angel, for heaven’s sake. Don’t act like this is your first time – first time materializing a ghost. Act normal._

Aziraphale truly didn’t know what he was doing, so he just felt. Felt the air around him, the static that travelled all the way to the being in front of him. Human but clearly not, like a copy of a recording. Human alike. And underneath all that spiritual glow, the soul. Like a small ball coiled up in a corner somewhere, abandoned and left alone. It was sad. Human souls were so beautiful. So he stretched out his hand.

**_Hello, you._ **

In his field of focus he could hear Crowley make a startled gasp of surprise, clearly having felt that, however small or big he didn’t know. Aziraphale hoped it felt good. He was treading as carefully as he could allow, but even so it… was a lot. Aziraphale breathed in, slow and steady. Exhaled. Curled his fists.

**_Hello. Why don’t you come over here?_ **

With a whoosh of air he summoned him towards him, a hair’s breadth away from his face. Crowley yelped loudly in surprise. It was odd that he could feel his soul, and yet. His body was still ever as translucent, no warmth or anything radiating from it. “Hmmm,” murmured Aziraphale, deep in thought.

This close, with his hand on his soul, he could just about make out Crowley self-consciously thinking _‘I know. It’s not much.’_ Which just saddened him deep to the core, further egging him on. He shook his head.

**_It’s not. It’s everything._ **

He could hear, see and feel Crowley shudder violently. He just couldn’t physically feel it. Not yet. So he imagined it, regarded this being before him intensely and thought _‘This is a man, with a human body’_ over and over. Pictured building the body from clay, wet with water, and then let it dry in the morning sun. That was what he was doing. He was sculpting.

_This is a human man. Human body, human arms. Long legs. Red hair. This is a person I can touch._

He stretched out his real hands this time, not just the ones of his physical form, to caress. To _feel_. And there he was, there was his face and his cheeks and his nose and ears and mouth. It was all there, all physical. Not warm, mind you, not gasping back to life and overflowing with aura like normal humans. But there all the same.

Aziraphale didn’t know how old he was, couldn’t tell human age preferences apart, but he looked good. Around the same age as his own vessel. Crowley had a birthmark on the right side of his face, just under his ear lobe. It was in the shape of a snake, he just now noticed. And because it was there, and he was there, and his hand was there. He softly placed a handful fingers on it, just slightly. Truth be told, Aziraphale wasn’t totally sure where his other hand had gone, whether it was at his sides or cradling Crowley’s or on his cheek. If he even had another one. He was very overwhelmed right now.

So was Crowley, it seemed. He was crying a little, shaking violently like leaves in the wind. He could see the hurt there, the purulence. It was buried deep within, like a spider web spanning round and round, engulfing his entire being. It seemed smothering, like a cancer.

“How did you die?” Aziraphale frowned, he hadn’t meant to say that. That had just come out, he couldn’t retract his statement now though. But what he meant instead was… “Who hurt you?”

Crowley’s eyelashes fluttered violently before his eyes snapped open, looking at Aziraphale intensely. His pupils were brown, though mudded. Dead eyes. Eyes of a corpse. A corpse that was in this moment looking at him a little scared. “Aziraphale…” he started, either as a warning or a plea, he wasn’t sure.

Aziraphale didn’t care. He needed to kill that cancer, eradicate the spider infestation if it was the last thing he did. He never craved anything so much than to help this soul recover. It was his angelic duty and it was also just him. His own desire. He _needed_ this man to be well. So he ignored it and pressed on. He let his real voice boom around the room like they were in a cathedral. **_How did you die?_**

_I fell._

Hurt was oozing out every letter of that sentence, that and resentment. Bitterness, ugly and cold and snarling like a feral dog. This man had been wronged, and greatly so. No wonder he was still here, forever stuck in this none being, none existence. Aziraphale chose not to press on about the ‘falling’ part of that sentence. Later.

Crowley’s eyes fluttered back shut after a moment, overwhelmed and exhausted. He could sleep. Aziraphale would hold him and take care of him.

“Why are you so full of grief?” he asked, with his human tongue this time and not with the seven others he had used before.

“Because…” Crowley’s answer was no more than a whisper. If he had human ears, he would have missed it. But he didn’t miss it. Crowley’s voice was shaking, trying to hold onto all that rage. “Because I have been abandoned. Left to die.”

“Who abandoned you?”

“I…” he kept swallowing, as if he found talking difficult. “I don’t know. The people I love. Me. I don’t remember, I don’t know, I don’t…” He was starting to panic, breath going quicker than a rabbit’s.

“If you don’t know,” Aziraphale offered him an olive branch, streaming love into this being from all sides, “then how can you be so sure you were abandoned?”

It helped. Crowley’s breathing started growing more and more shallow, and unbeknown to the angel, his physical form started flickering. He was barely holding on, the urge to discorporate too strong. But Aziraphale didn’t realize that yet. Didn’t realize that he was caressing a soul, healing it, and not a body. He tried to help and was yet instead smothering something he wanted to nourish.

“Because I…,” he breathed out. “Because I _know_ , I… I know, I _fell_. I fell.” The next words were little more than a sob. “I fell.”

**_You’re safe now._ **

He meant it. Truly meant it. Crowley gasped and flung his eyes open again. Maybe he’d been too loud this time. Souls were not unlike frightened deer. One needed to be gentle, so as not to spook them.

“Aziraphale, please,” Crowley whispered desperately. Aziraphale frowned; he couldn’t tell his eye colour anymore. His face was barely visible, flickering in and out of sight. “Please don’t.” Vaguely he remembered their conversation from earlier. Something about needing the hurt to keep themselves tethered to this realm. He also realized that Crowley was begging.

_I don’t want to go. Don’t make me._

**_No._ **

Aziraphale’s response was violent and all at once. He withdrew his hand and body harshly, the sheer aggressiveness of his command towards his body to _stop_ was so powerful it threw him back. Quite literally, he was sliding away on the floor. He could feel his back and butt hit something just as he saw Crowley flickering back into existence, albeit a little hesitantly. Trembling all over, his hair a mess. He hadn’t been there, before.

To say Aziraphale felt guilty was the understatement of the century. “I’m _so_ sorry,” he sobbed. Why had he even offered?? Of course this would have disastrous consequences, no matter how amazing it might have felt for him.

“D-“ Crowley tried pronouncing, his voice sounding wrecked like he’d been screaming. Aziraphale felt guilty for doing that to him. “Dddon’t. ‘S fine.”

“No it’s _not_ fine, I should have listened to you before!” he yelled, slamming his hand on the hard-cold wood of the floor. It hurt. Good. He made to apologize again, but Crowley cut him off.

“No bother crying about it now. Spilt milk. I’m fine now.” He still sounded out of breath.

“Are you…” Aziraphale didn’t know what he wanted to ask. Heavens help him. “Did you…?” _Like it? Hate it?_

Crowley laughed breathlessly and made to stretch his imaginary limbs. “It wasn’t the greatest experience I ever had. Kind of had me in a tight spot there.” He was lying. Aziraphale was acutely aware that he was lying through his teeth but decided to leave it be. “But worth a shot. Well. That’s that, then.” He was obviously nervous, fiddling here and there and never staying in one place at a time. Aziraphale was still on the floor.

“Oh, would ya look at that!” Crowley exclaimed, pointing towards the clock on the night stand that hadn’t been working for weeks now. “Would ya look at the time, so late already? Bloody hell. I ought to get going. Ought to… take a nap. Yes, I think I will do that. Now.”

Aziraphale knew what that meant. It was an idiom for Crowley wanted to not exist for a little while. He understood perfectly. “Alright,” he sighed, officially cancelling this house meeting for the day. “As you wish. But Crowley, will you… I mean, would you mind- “

Crowley was back to his annoyed grumpy self, to everyone’s delight. “Spit it out.”

“Will you wake up in the foreseeable future?” Another phrase for _‘don’t sleep through the entire century again’_ , as he so often did. According to his own words. And again for _‘I want to be there when you come back’_. He would find it terribly sad if this would be their last encounter of any kind. Their last house meeting. His note book still wasn’t nearly full enough.

Crowley stopped hovering and looked at him, deeply looked. He seemed embarrassed, and if he were human, he would have been blushing Aziraphale was sure. Touched. The amount of people who had ever told him to not drift off too far and to come back because they would miss him added up around a total amount of zero. Just got changed to one.

“Uhh,” Crowley stuttered awkwardly. “Ummm. Yes? Yes, sure. ‘Course, why not? See ya then, old sport.” He was almost mist and fog before he spun back around and looked at his angelic friend. “Oh, and another thing: You must promise me that we will never, _ever_ talk about what just transpired here.”

“But-“ Aziraphale didn’t like being tongue tied.

“Never, angel. Nothing, nada. Not a _whisper_ of anything I might have said in the throes of passion, got it?” His eyes turned softer then. “Not unless… bullocks, not unless I ever explicitly nag you about it. If I go to you and say ‘ _Gee_ , Az, whatever _did_ happen on that rainy morning in August?’ then, and only then, will you be allowed to voice any opinions about it. Until then: hold your breath. You told me just this evening that you were particularly good at that.”

“… Understood,” Aziraphale reassured him. Because he had. Autonomy and respect. The making of great partnerships. “Already forgotten.”

Crowley smiled fondly at him, blink and you’ll miss it smile. And then he was gone, just as he’d been there. Poof. Disappear into thin air. Aziraphale sighed and went on tidying up. Maybe he would make himself another one of those teas.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale literally constructs intricate rituals in order to touch the skin of another man. Also I just made myself laugh with the picture of those ghost fans trying to communicate with Crowley via Ouija board, them asking “Who’s there? Tell us your name, ghost” And Crowley just. Obnoxiously does one of those long, drawn out shrieky “WOOOOoOoOOHhOOoOOo” sounds that drunk straight girlies do in clubs or at social events fajsdhajsd  
> Also if you think that last part sounded vaguely sexy and homoerotic then you. Would be absolutely correct.


End file.
